It wasn’t long ago that I first held you in my arms, fully formed as the delicate little poppy-dandelion-buttercup-rosebud blossom that you are. So gorgeous and wonderful, such a delight, that you, Mandela Reagan Potter, were named for two of the bravest men I ever knew (of).

Years ago, your mother and I met while traversing the r/centrists subreddit. We were drawn to each other through our mutual dislike for both sides of the corrupt political establishment — equally so, as the violence of the right (fascism, a plethora of hate crimes, -phobias, and -isms) and the left (protesting against the systematic disenfranchisement of minorities, fighting for equity, dignity, and respect) was far too much to bear. Our relationship took off like SpaceX’s Starship rocket: explosively. Within mere days I had courted her using my masculine appeal, and she soon reciprocated by cajoling me into joining her for a night of debauchery and the fine film adaptations of J.K. Rowling’s seminal works. 

It was then that we discussed our heroes, and what we hoped to see in the future. 

We also copulated.

You, baby Mandela, are a sign of the times. You represent the perfect balance of social and fiscal policies that our country so desperately needs. Named for Nelson Mandela, who helped lead the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa and worked fervently towards equality; and for Ronald Reagan, who ensured that my father’s generational wealth would stay where it belonged — in the family — rather than going to the dirty poors. You are our North Star: a bastion against wokeness and communism alike.

Through you, baby Regan, perhaps our country can heal its great divide.